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 The SILFHPosted 10.27.2006 by Anomalous Coward (690)
I have a sister-in-law. She hates me. That's okay -- she doesn't rate all that high in my book, either. She rarely visits -- but when she does, I try to find something to do elsewhere. But last winter when she came I was fresh out of elsewhere's to go to and something else's to do.
I suppose she's not really a BAD person; she just annoys the hell out of me. She ceaselessly reveals the most intimate details of her bodily functions to any hapless fool she can corner, and she has a mouth like a sewer. Now, I'm not squeamish, but I don't need to know about anyone's time of the month other than my wife's. Most of all, the SILFH (Sister-In-Law-From-Hell) talks about her chronic constipation, which is likely induced by her passionate love affair with laxatives and cathartics. Poop in and of itself obviously has a humorous side (witness the wonderful world of PoopReport); but even a good thing can be overdone. The day she arrived was a particularly trying one. She had just broken up with Whatshisface, the latest boyfriend, and was in a vile mood to begin with. Shortly after arriving, she called Whathisface and bitched him out about something, and then hung up on him. He in turn called her back and reamed her out over something else. This went on for way too long before they tired of trying to outdo the other at childish behavior, at which time she told him to "F*ck off, you stupid selfish *sshole" and he exchanged similar terms of endearment with her. This, of course, is followed by the obligatory slamming of the phone. By now any entertainment value in this situation has been exhausted, as has my patience. After a far too short a period of silence, the SILFH announces that she has to "take a f*cking shit," and storms off to the upstairs bathroom. Our cat has his litter pan in the upstairs bathroom, and he often lies on the floor in a patch of sunlight during the day. He was apparently doing so when the SILFH barged in to the crapper. "You f*cking G*d d*mned f*cking cat!" she screamed. "Quit looking at me while I'm trying to shit!" I heard the pattering of his little feet as he escaped from the monster invading his quiet domain. The door slams and quiet once again settles in. Then Whozit calls. Whozit is the dysfunctional loser the SILFH was dating before she broke up with him to go with Whatshisface. (Need a program to keep this straight yet?) How he knew she'd be at our place was beyond me. "Who's on the f*cking phone?" is bellowed from behind the bathroom door. "It's Whozit," my wife called back. "What the f*ck does that *sshole want?" "He wants to talk to you!" "Tell him I'm taking the first shit I've had all week, and I'll call the lame f*ckwit back when I'm done." (Note: SILFH really does talk like this. I employ asterisks because I like them.) Wife gets rid of Whozit and hangs up. The bathroom door bangs open like Godzilla is getting ready to come through it. "Did that f*ckoff say what he wanted?" drifts down. Before wife can answer we hear a sound that brings to mind the mating caterwaul of a feline in heat, followed by a grunt that a boar hog would be proud of. "UUNNNNGHH-ERRRGH, oh damn, oh shit -- GUUNNNNHHHH f*ck this -- UUNNGGGHHH!" Silence. Then she fires the fart heard 'round the block. More moaning. "Shut the g*ddam door!" I yell. "F*ck you! Ohhh, UUNNNNGHH" -- the SILFH farts loudly -- "have you got any f*cking prune juice? UUNNNNGHH!" I suddenly remember that the tires on the barbeque grill need rotating. I head for the door when the phone rings. It's Whatshisname. "Is that fat b*tch still there?" Yeah, I think, she's stinking up my upstairs bathroom and the hallway, scaring eight lives out of my cat, and making unnatural vocalizations. "No." I hang up. "Who's on the f*cking phone?" "Wrong number." Outside, it is cold. I go into the garage -- crud, nothing needs fixing here. But there is a label I've been meaning to read on a can of insect spray I bought during the summer. That should keep me busy 'til the SILFH gets bored and leaves. Although the plot is a bit thin and the narrative less than compelling, the can of Raid keeps me occupied for half an hour. Then I move on to the warnings on the lawn mower. Fascinating. Did you know that mowers are not intended for indoor use? Wow. Having read the print off everything in the garage, not to mention having frozen the 'nads off, I go back into the house. Moans of agony that would have sent a shiver of joy through the master torturer of the Inquisition assail my ears. Great, SILFH is still on the can. Wife volunteers that Whozit has called back a couple times. The sound of a flush is heard from up the stairs. "Oh f*ck," and then another flush. "Meeooww!" followed by "G*ddam cat!" Then the clumping of the cloven hooves of Satan on the steps (okay, it was just the SILFH). An odor of fermenting feces gone bad wafts along after her. Whozit calls again. After listening to potty mouth holler from the throne, this exchange leaves me speechless. "Oh hi, honey! What did you need? ... Oh, that's sweet of you ...you DID? ... you shouldn't have ... I miss you too ... that sounds nice ... at two? ... okay ... love you too ... mwuah!" I'm gonna hurl. Good news: SILFH leaves. Whathisface calls again and with great pleasure I tell him that the bride of Frankenstein just left to see Whozit. Peace reigns supreme in our battered domicile yet again... until the return of the SILFH. Post new comment
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